


Semper Fidelis

by kakashikrazy256



Series: Agent 707 [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, MTF Vanderwood, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Self-Hatred, Vandermom 2k16, When Vanderwood is the mom Seven never had, can someone please save Seven, please, spoilers for Seven's past, vanderwood actually plays an important role in a story!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8276962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashikrazy256/pseuds/kakashikrazy256
Summary: You knew you were going to die here, exhausted and half insane. But no one would remember you. Because you were never supposed to exist. The three days Agent 707 spent hiding in the boiler room on a field assignment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the phone call MC has with Seven where he tells her about one of the more dangerous assignments he has taken in the past. Who doesn’t like to torture this poor kid some more? I’m on Day 10 of Seven’s route, so mentions of his past will be made. Spoilers~ 
> 
> MTF!Mary Vanderwood 3rd is a precious soul who I will defend forever. So this is mainly Seven and Vanderwood centric. I reckon Seven would not have been able to survive on his own if Vanderwood wasn’t around to nag him. 
> 
> This mission occurs three years prior to canon, so Seven is 17-18. Vanderwood is in her mid-twenties. 
> 
> Warnings: Language, anxiety/panic attacks, child abuse, mental/physical illness, depression, vomiting, self-harm, and lots of angst

You had to admit that this wasn’t the best plan you’ve had.

The fabric of your shirt slides against your sticky skin, and you let out a grunt of disgust.

This wasn’t how the mission was supposed to end up. You had infiltrated when the warehouse was void of people. You had hacked your way into the main software, and sent the necessary information to the Agency. It was a simple mission; a cake walk for the infamous Agent Seven Zero Seven.

Perhaps you had been a little too cocky. You had turned down the suggestion to bring a backup team-which wasn’t a problem for the Agency. Less people on one case meant more on different ones.

You were so close to making an escape. But then, they returned, and you couldn’t leave without getting caught. There were at least fifty of them and only one exit. This was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission. You didn’t have enough magazines to fight your way out.

You sent the information, the job was done. The Agency doesn’t expect a debrief for another four days.

That’s four days the Agency wouldn’t bother to look for you.  For four days, you can finally take a breath without feeling as if some looming monster was breathing down your back.

You let out a derisive snort and push your damp bangs away from your forehead. A quick glance around the room told you that this was the farthest thing from a sanctuary.

You had slipped into the boiler room before anyone saw. This would be the perfect place to hide _temporarily_. The vents allow you to hear most of what’s going on outside, but they couldn’t hear you over the hums of the boilers and pipes. You had done your research prior and the only ones who ever enter this room were the repairmen. There wasn’t a scheduled maintenance check until next month. You were safe for the time being. You just had to wait a little. Just wait until the enemies lessened or left all together. Then, you would be able to escape and return to….to whatever the hell kind of life you had with the Agency.

You lean back against the wall, hating how sweat seemed to drip down your neck in little streams.

It’s an old warehouse, so the equipment is shitty. The pipes aren’t insulated, and boilers hiss with steam that fog up your glasses. There are no windows, and the tiny ventilation shafts did nothing to alleviate the high temperatures.

You had shed your heavy jacket within the first hour of hiding, and rolled up the sleeves of your red shirt within the second. _It was still too hot._

You rest your forehead against your knees, letting out a breath. It’ll be over soon. They’ll leave, and then you’ll leave. It’s just that simple.

_Just….a little longer…_

You tell yourself this over and over until it becomes a mantra that runs through your mind constantly in the background.

 You don’t have a watch, and the boiler room has no service. You lose track of the hours that pass, but there was never a chance for you to leave. Footsteps echo through the vents without a pause, and you know they had set up shifts. There weren’t many opportunities to sneak in and out; that was why the timing of this mission was important.

Something so fucking simple, and you still fucked up.

Just a little longer. It’ll be over soon.

Evidently, the torture wasn’t ending. You let out a pant, pulling at the shirt that was more damp than dry. There is no comfortable way to sit. Your pants are sticking to your legs and everything itches. You just want to strip yourself bare, and drink a lake. You run your tongue over your cracked lips, but there’s barely enough saliva to wet them.

“Fuck….” You mutter out, and roll to your side. The walls are warm, and so is the ground. Your vision is blurred; the glasses smudged with sweat and dirt. They keep sliding off the bridge of your nose, and you close your eyes.

Just a little longer.

Sleep doesn’t take you in its merciful embrace. The humidity is too high; you can see the waves of heat in front of you. You toss and turn for hours, not knowing if it’s night or day. You can’t focus on much of anything. The footsteps still sound through the vents occasionally, and you decide to wait a little bit longer.

You never forget to pray though. Your hands find comfort around the cross hanging from your neck. The metal is lukewarm, but you don’t really care. You bring it to your torn lips every now and then, and whisper words of love to the Lord. _Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for rescuing me from that house. Thank you for protecting him._

You trace the rough patterns on the wall, and wonder how much time has passed. Your feet tap incessantly against the floor as you grow more nervous. Unwanted thoughts enter your brain and leave as they please. You didn’t have your medicine; there was no wall to block them out.  Has it been four days? Is the Agency looking for you? Do they even care? Even if they did look for you, they only wanted you for your skills. That’s all you are, aren’t you? Just a file in their database, marked as useful.

Your stomach muscles cramp and you curl into a ball. It’s not that you’re hungry or anything. You feel more thirst than hunger at this point. Your head is pounding harshly against your skull, and you press your temple against the ground. It feels as if the floor is vibrating from the solid throbbing that is echoing in your ears. You try to wipe the sweat away, but your hands are failing to follow your directions. _It’s too hot._

You realize that you’re going to die here. You figure this out when you reach up to wipe away sweat, and find none. Even if the enemies had left the warehouse (and you can no longer tell, everything was replaced with a low hum), you wouldn’t be able to escape in your sorry state.

So this is how it ends for you. Alone in enemy territory, overheated and dehydrated. What an anticlimactic ending for Agent Seven Zero Seven. You wonder what your funeral would look like. Who would show up? Probably Ms. Vanderwood. She seemed to care enough to show up and threaten to tase you every time you slacked off or when you forgot to eat and take your medicine. You wonder if she would cry for you. Ahaa…probably not…ahahaha…

Your breathing is growing erratic, everything is going black and you had nothing familiar to ground you. You clench your stinging eyes shut, and call out to God for help. You don’t deserve his blessing, but you are selfish and beg for it anyways.

You were going to die, and no one would care. You tried to start your life anew as Luciel, but Luciel disappeared the moment you stepped foot into the Agency. The hope that came with the name was gone. You were 707. A number. You have no name, you have no identity. Agent Seven was a façade, but there was no face under the mask. Once the mask cracks and you die…what would you leave behind? Have you left your mark at all? No, you haven’t. 707 is a number. An anonymous entity. Once it disappears… _once you disappear_ …you’re gone without a trace. You would be forgotten, and no one would care.

 _He would…I know he would_. This one thought keeps you from going over the edge, and you swallow painfully. You curl in on yourself some more, wrapping your arms around the last bit of hope you had.

Your eyes grow heavy with exhaustion, but sleep still evades you. Your tongue is no longer moist, and you are lying on your stomach, hands outstretched. You don't know what you’re reaching for, but at least now you have some sort of goal in mind. You no longer remember your original one.

 _Water._ You try to say, but you’re not sure if the words ever leave your parched throat. Your hands are clenching around nothing, but you keep pursuing. _Water…water…water…I need it I need it now. Please…God please._

Water.

Water.

**_Water, Saeyoung-ah. Go out and get water._ **

You blink, and turn your head slowly trying to find the source of the familiar voice.

**_Mother doesn't feel too well. Go_ ** **_out and get some for me._ **

Water. Your voice croaks as you try speaking again. You see golden eyes just like your own, stare back.

**_Yes, water. Get mother some water. Be a good boy, Saeyoung-ah._ **

You shake your head, and immediately regret the sudden rush of nausea that accompanies the movement. _Stop…stop it. Saeyoung is dead, he doesn’t exist stop i-_

**_Do as I say. Or he’ll get no water either. Where’s the rope? Did you hide it again? I have to tie him down, where is it?_ **

_No…no..._ You collapse against the ground completely.

**_Saeyoung-hyung…? I’m s-scared…_ **

You raise a shaky limb, swinging it clumsily behind your back. _Stay back…stay behind me…don’t let her come near you…_

**_You are an ungrateful child, Saeyoung. That is why he’s so much better. He’s so quiet and obedient. He could never refuse his mother’s wishes. Come here to mother. Right now._ **

_Stop…leave him alone. Please, just take me. Leave him out of this. Don’t hurt him anymore please._

Everything is burning, just like it did years ago. You can feel the glass fly in your direction. The corrosive sting of cuts, drenched in alcohol when she threw full bottles. It all returns to you and you rub at old scars in a panic. Your vision is fading in and out, but you stay awake through sheer will. You can’t fall asleep. You can’t leave him to mother. _You can’t fail again._ You have to protect him. Protect Sa-

Sleep finally drags you, unwillingly, into darkness.

* * *

Agent Seven Zero Seven has been missing for three days.

You glance at the clock with a scowl, before giving the floor another violent sweep with a broom. After another moment, you give up, and reach for your cell phone.

When the Agency asked you to take on a long term assignment, you were overjoyed. Short jobs were usually mundane, and simple. You didn’t mind starting a new mission. There would finally be a challenge.

So why the hell did they put one of their best agents on babysitting duty?

They told you Agent 707 was the best hacker in Korea, but all you saw was some snot-nosed brat still struggling through puberty. They said they needed 707 _stable and healthy_ , and your job was to ensure he stayed that way.

When you first walked into his house- _a huge mansion that made your paycheck tremble with jealousy,_ you were greeted with junk food wrappers, soda cans, and pants littered across the floor.

It pissed you off how this kid was living the life, probably fucking around on the internet all day. He couldn’t even keep his floor clean? And now he needed a nanny? You prepared yourself for meeting the most spoiled teenager in the world.

Instead, you were greeted by a mess.

It didn’t show at first. The kid was polite, and was appropriately sheepish for leaving his house in such disarray. You made him clean up his own garbage, and didn’t speak to him unless necessary. And he seemed fine with the arrangement.

You would sit on the couch, flipping through magazines while he typed away on his computer. Numbers flew on the screen, and even with your extensive knowledge on code, you couldn’t keep up. He wasn’t playing games or surfing the web. He didn’t really have much of a personality, and he wasn’t spoiled. The only problem was probably his lack of understanding of what a healthy meal was.

Maybe this assignment was a well-deserved reward for all your years of service. You didn’t understand what the Agency meant by keeping him stable. He seemed fine to you. You started to relax.

Then, he had a breakdown.

You couldn’t remember what went wrong that day. You hadn’t said anything too harsh. He didn’t get any emails or phone calls that could’ve prompted it. It just happened.

He was typing one moment, then throwing the keyboard away from the desk, struggling to breathe the next.

Alarmed, you ran up to the kid, trying to figure out what went wrong.  You reached out to touch his shoulder, and he flinched away. His trembling arms grasped at the material of his oversized hoodie, his breaths coming out in wheezes.

A panic attack.

_Keep him **mentally stable**._

You knelt down, and coached him through the episode. You told him to follow your breathing, and try to replicate it. You calmly spouted out facts. _You are Agent 707; you are a hacker working for the Agency. This is your house. This is your floor, your carpet, your jacket, your headphones. I am Agent Vanderwood, and I am here to help you._

 The attack ended as quick as it came, and he stumbled away from you without so much as a thank you. You followed him subtly as he pattered away deeper into the house. He was too out of it to notice you anyways. You watch him entered a personal bathroom, and open the mirror.

He pulled out pill after pill, and swallowed each one with so much nonchalance. When he left the bathroom, you walked in to check the labels. _Valium_ and _Prozac_ are just some of the names you recognized.

It was at this moment, you truly understood what you signed up for.

You stormed back out to his office, and watched him jump back when you slammed the door open.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You demanded.

“T-tell you what?” He muttered, like a true teenager.

“That you have depression, and needed to take medication?” He flinched, but didn’t look you in the eye.

“Agent Seven Zero Seven.” You repeated warningly, and he finally glanced up. You see the dark bags under his dull golden eyes, and wonder how you didn’t see them before.

“I didn’t think it was relevant…”

You scowled and moved closer.

“My assignment is to make sure you’re mentally stable, and healthy. This is important information for me to complete my duty.”

“So I’m just another mission for you, huh?”

His cold tone cut through your own anger, and you paused. He looked away again, and bent down to pick up his keyboard. He turned back to typing numbers.

“That’s all I am to the Agency too. A weapon.” He continued to mutter, his hands moving faster.

“They don’t really care. I only need to be sane because they need me for missions.” The keyboard clacked loudly as he hit the keys harder.

“I…I want to be useful! But I want to be more than that!” He hissed, his voice pitched up an octave like the child he is. “I want…I want-" He stopped, looking at the mess of zeros and ones on the screen. They didn’t make sense at all.

The room was silent, save for the kid’s ragged breathing.

“You are an agent, 707. Agents can’t have selfish desires.” You told him calmly, watching his crestfallen expression.

“….I understand, Agent Vanderwood.” The wavering in his voice disappeared, and was replaced with professionalism. He pushed his glasses up, and placed his hands back on the keyboard.

You sighed, watching his tired eyes return to stare at the screen.

“But…” You paused, and placed a glass of water on his desk, “that doesn’t mean you can’t take a break to just breathe.”

He glanced at the water with wide eyes, before turning to stare up at yours.

“You’re still a kid. And brats need to eat nutritious meals. Chips and soda are going to make you stupid.” You raised your hand slowly and placed it on his head when he didn’t flinch away.

You watched him tense up before relaxing as you ruffled his red hair.

“I’m not a kid.” He mumbled, averting his gaze. It brings a smirk to your face. So the kid can be cute once in a while. He moved away from your grasp, eyes dark.

“I haven’t been one in a long time.”

So you continued on with your assignment. But you were extra observant now. And you did notice little things about the brat that you hadn’t before.

You realized that he had a hard time focusing for long periods of time. The keyboard sounds would stop every so often, and you’d look up to see him gazing off into the distance for a solid ten minutes before the keyboard clacking resumed.

He wasn’t messy on purpose either. You watched him wander around the house during breaks. He’d have something in his hand, then drop it absentmindedly when something else caught his attention. You'd rush to pick up the mess he left, because you just can't fucking stand a cluttered house. His hands were always tangled in his headphone wires, twisting and pulling. Soda cans and chip bags piled up on bad days, when he could barely focus without gnawing on something to keep himself calm.

On particularly bad days, you’d show up at his house and find him missing. It was like playing hide and seek with a toddler. You’d pray to the gods, look in all the spare rooms on each floor, and wonder how the kid could stand living in such an empty house by himself.

You’d usually find him sitting in a closet, or in a bathroom. His jacket on, hood over his head, headphones blasting, nails scratching at his forearms mechanically while he muttered to himself. You’d gently smack his hands away and calm him down. Then, you’d check for marks before sitting him down for an actual breakfast, and remind him to take his medicine. You made sure to keep track of all the knives and scissors in the house. He was never frustrated at you for catching him. In fact, he seemed utterly indifferent to your attempts to help him live like an actual human being.

You didn’t want to admit it, but the brat worried you.

You ended up staying later and later each time you came over. You would usher him to bed (which did cause him to get indignant about having a bedtime), and made sure he was asleep before you left. 

And this went on for years. He slowly grew warmer to your presence, and laughed each time you threatened to use a taser on him when he called you his maid. You watched him grow from a kid to someone that resembled an adult. Though, he would always be a brat in your eyes.

So the fact that he hadn’t been home for three days struck suspicion in you.

He had told you he had a field assignment, and to not come over. However, you had checked the files before, and knew he had completed the mission. Yet, the house was empty when you walked in.

He must’ve gone on vacation to de-stress, you reasoned to yourself on the first day. It’s not uncommon for him. He’s almost an adult now; it’s not your business whether he went out or not. You’re not his fucking mother, for god’s sake.

On the second day, you came to find the same scene. An empty house. It was strange to walk in and not see a pair of socks hanging from a painting, or a tower made from soda cans. You loitered around a few hours before heading home.

Today, you decided to check the bathroom. You opened the bathroom mirror with practiced ease, and pulled the pill bottles out. Ever since the time you witnessed his breakdown because he hadn’t taken his medicine for three days, you had started counting his pills.

Wherever he went, he hadn’t taken his medication with him.

That was not good.

You called the Agency, and asked for the details of his last assignment.

You got in the car, and drove.

The warehouse is shabby, and disgusting. You park the car discreetly, and start scouting the area. You hear mindless conversation from lackeys, and there is no mention of the brat.

There are only a total of 46 men, and you had caused a distraction online to catch their attention. You aren’t as talented as Agent 707 in hacking, but you are pretty good at what you do.

They took the bait, you notice smugly as they all piled into their cars and vans, speeding away.

It takes a half a minute to bypass their shitty security system. You walk in cautiously, a gun by your side. There aren’t many places where Agent 707 could hide. The vents are too small to crawl through, and you couldn’t find him in the closets.

You pause outside the boilers room.

He wouldn’t be that stupid….right?

You open the metal door, wincing as the heat rushes out. Your face immediately feels sticky from the humidity.

You walk in, glancing around.

And you see him.

“Seven!” His name leaves your lips in an urgent tone. You rush over to his collapsed form.

“Fucking hell.” You swear under your breath as you pull him onto your lap. Sweat is already dripping down your neck as you survey his body.

His hair is hanging in clumps, sticky from dry sweat. His face is flushed red, forehead burning, and his eyes are sunken in.

“Seven. Hey!” You shake him firmly, and watch him struggle to open his eyes. It takes over a minute, and plans are running through your mind rapidly by the second.

You jump when he throws himself off your lap. He is backing away, but his movements are clumsy. Jesus Christ, has he been in here this entire time?

“Don’t touch him.” His voice is so hoarse; you could barely recognize it as his.

“Seven, it’s me. We need to get you out of here.”

He is waving his arm weakly, as if pushing someone behind him. “Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him anymore. Please stop.” His words are slurring together, and you’re panicking.

Dehydration, heat exhaustion to the point of hallucinations. You file the information away, and move to get closer.

“Don’t touch-“He looks behind him, and freezes.

“Seve-“

“W-where…” He looks bewildered, and terrified as he whips his head back and forth, looking for something that isn’t there.

“Where!” He whirls back around, swaying. “Where did you take him?” His hands reach up to tangle in his red curls as his breathing hitches.

“Seven!” You grab him by the shoulders, and he freaks.

“Mother please, don’t hurt him anymore. You can take me instead. Please, just don’t hurt Saer-“

You slap him across the face before he can reveal anymore. You were both agents who weren’t supposed to have a past. You didn’t want him to continue revealing his most vulnerable secrets.

His mouth clicks shut the moment the pain registers. You watch some of the cloudiness melt away as he turns to look at you for the first time.

“....Mary-noona…?” You nearly drop him in your shock. He has never called you by your name before. Much less _noona_. When you had told him about yourself, and what you preferred to be called, he had smiled as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He accepted it _. He accepted you._

“Luciel…” You say his name as well. He blinks in confusion, and doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans forward, pulling your hand towards his forehead.

“Luciel?”

“You’re…cold…nice…” His entire weight is leaning against you and fuck you nearly forgot.

“Luciel,” You shake him, “when did you stop sweating?” Because that was the first thing you noticed when you got close. It was excruciatingly hot in here, and the kid wasn’t sweating anymore.

“…Huh?”

“Damn it…” He’s not even capable of grasping your words. You take his hand, and pinch his skin up.

“Fuck!” You swear again as you watch the flesh sag back down in an alarmingly slow rate.

“What day is it, Luciel?” He is quiet, and you shake him again as you reach over to grab his discarded jacket.

“….August…ah…um…”

“Okay that’s okay, that’s….good we’re getting somewhere.” You scan the entire room for any other traces left behind.

“Who’s…Luciel…?” The kid slurs before tipping over.

“Woa-hey brat?” Your instincts is what helps you catch him before he hits the ground.

 _Shit shit shit;_ you run a hand through your sticky hair. This is not good. He’s on his way towards a heatstroke.

You reach down, and wrap an arm under his knees before lifting him up. You throw the jacket over your shoulder hastily before turning for the door.

“Luciel, for fuck sakes. I’m not the Hulk, help me out here. Put your arms around my neck.” You huff out, as you sprint for the exit.

He’s barely lucid, but he tries to heed your orders. His lanky arms end up smacking you in the face several times before he has them wrapped around you loosely. He is so light, you feel sick.

“I’m thirsty….” He moans into your neck miserably, and you nod.

“We’ll get you water.” You arrive at your car, and gently place him down, turning the AC on full blast. The entire ride is hurried and tense as you try to keep him awake while watching the road.

Luciel doesn’t exist in the real world. His records don’t exist. The Agency never condones the use of hospitals. Injuries were to be treated on your own or at the medical center at the Agency headquarters.

Even the closest headquarter was still too far away.

“Fuck…fuck!” You smack the steering wheel with a growl.

You arrive back at his house, and move immediately.

He had fallen unconscious even with all your attempts to keep him awake. He’s alarmingly still in your arms, his shallow breaths against your neck are the only indicator that he’s still alive. You tighten your grip on him as you disable the security system and rush in. His body temperature is still too high, and you can’t risk him having a seizure or a stroke. You place him down gently on the bathroom floor, and start an ice bath.

He jolts when you drop him into the ice mixture, but doesn’t wake.

“I’m going to submerge you completely now.” You explain, even though he doesn’t hear.

You count down each time you dunk him, hoping to god that he regains his senses soon.

At the fifth dunk, he starts to flail and you pull him up. His eyes are dazed, but they’re open. You brush his hair away from his forehead. His fever had lowered to a much more manageable level.

“M-m-mary…” He coughs up water, his teeth chattering pathetically.

“It’s me, Luciel. It’s me.” You sigh softly, and pull him out of the tub. His limbs are shaking, and you have to help him pull the wet clothes off.

He’s not much help as you towel him off like a toddler. You lead him to his room, and pull out some clean clothes while he attempts to crawl into bed. You let him dress himself to save him whatever remains of his dignity. You go to the kitchen, and grab as many bottles of water and sports drinks you can carry.

“Here.” You hand him an opened sports drink, and he takes it with trembling hands.

He barely makes it past two sips before turning a bit green. You lunge for the wastebasket, and shove it under his chin as he starts vomiting.

There are unshed tears in his eyes by the time he finishes, and he gives you the saddest look you’ve ever seen.

“It’s okay.” You exhale deeply, and rub circles on his back. He starts to ramble, sniffling and hiccupping.

“’m sorry. I know I-I fucked up. I didn’t mean to-“You silence his self-deprecating words with a look, and he goes back to looking miserable.

“I guess you can’t really stomach liquid right now…but you need to drink. You’re really dehydrated. You’re not hungry either?” A shake of his head confirms that as negative. You gesture for him to wait, and return with a cup of ice chips.

Sucking on them keeps him quiet, and you rub your eyes in exhaustion.

“Mary…” He gets out in between bits of ice. He looks up at you with uncertainty.

“Yeah?”

“Do I matter?”

The question startles you, and you turn to stare at him.

“What?”

He looks as if he regrets asking, and he stares at the floor.

“I was thinking…when I was back there.” His fingers grasp at the bed sheets. “I thought I was going to die.” He lets out a derisive snort, but you didn’t find it funny. “Stupid right? Dying because of some dumb mistake.”

“But…” He looks up at you again, “I realized…that if I died, I would disappear forever. I don’t have a birth certificate. I don’t have records. _I don’t exist.”_   His grip on the cup tightens as he continues. “I don’t have a family that would mourn me. So…if I died…would anything I've done matter? All these missions…they’re Seven’s work. But what have I done? I don’t have anything in my name. I don’t even have a name. Nothing I do will matter, right?”

His words shake you to the core. **_He’s just a kid._** You open and close your mouth several times, completely lost on what you could say to reassure him. You stay silent, and he let out another broken laugh.

“I guess not, right? Of course not…I never deserved this second chance. This is God’s way of punishing me for abandoning….yeah I deserve this. So...it's okay, forget what I just said.” Tears were gleaming in his eyes, and you decide enough is enough.

"Damn it, kid.” You run a hand through your hair, and move to sit on his bed. “I would care.”

He looks at you like you said you’d wear the maid outfit he had made for the rest of your life. “R-really?”

It’s fucking sad, seeing how his eyes light up at the thought that someone gave a shit about him being alive.

“Yes. I think the work you do for the Agency is amazing. If you died, I would definitely remember everything you’ve done.”

He deflates a bit at that. “Oh…for the Agency…”

You tsk, and bop him on the head gently.

“And I would miss your crappy jokes, and shitty attitude.” You pull an exaggerated face, as if it pained you to admit it.

The kid lets out a snicker, and gives you a soft smile, some lingering doubt in his eyes. “You….really mean it?”

“….Yes I really do. And you do have a name, kid. Luciel. You are Luciel, and you matter to me.”

The look on his face is worth every word.

“But….” You pinch his cheeks with a smirk, and watch him contort his face in pain.

“Ow hey-ow ow! Mary!”

“We are not going to talk about death right now. You’re still in your teens, you brat. Why would you be dying so soon?”

“Ahaha that’s right, I’m not an old hag like Mary-noona~”

“What was that?!”

You can’t help but grin, watching him snicker. He’s still dangerously pale, but it’s a huge improvement from the still body you had seen back at the warehouse. You flinch as you remember how fragile he looked. **_He’s just a kid._**

“Now get some sleep, you still have a pretty high fever. I’ll wake you in an hour so you can try drinking more fluids. You also have to take your medicine, right? You haven’t had them in three days.”

He nods at each of your inquiries, but you know he’s already half-asleep.

“And don’t forget, you have to have your debrief report done by tomorrow.” You watch him groan as he sinks back into his pillows. You pull the ice cup away from his slackening hands.

“Hey…” He grabs your coat sleeve before you can turn away. He looks up at you shyly, eyes glassy with sleep and fever.

“Thank you….for caring that I exist.”

You swallow loudly, and grip his cold fingers.

“Just get better.” You simply say, before pulling the covers up for him. He’s already asleep by the time you close the door.

 You run your hands through your hair again, before pushing away from the door with a exasperated laugh.

You have a debrief report to bullshit.

**Author's Note:**

> Give me family feels with Seven and Vanderwood! *Slams table repeatedly*
> 
> Low-key wants to write a r18, noncon alternate version where Seven's not so lucky and gets caught by the enemies but am I evil enough??
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments/feedback are appreciated! I hope you enjoyed.


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